We are not tragedies
by VervainAndRoses
Summary: He makes love to her like he knows she's better, than the worst thing she's ever done.


I no longer need you to fuck me as hard as I hate myself.  
Make love to me  
like you know I am better than the worst thing I ever did.

oOo

The first time, it was after Budapest. They'd been partners for 2 years and sent to Hungary, to an easy recon mission that wasn't so. A firefight ensued, and they were terribly outnumbered and running out of ammo real fast. They fought their way out with fists and teeth and then there were no more coming, they were done, and Clint swears he could've wept with relief. They weren't dead, yet.

They limped and groaned all the way to the safe house and he managed to close the door before Natasha slammed him against a wall and attacked his lips with her own.

It wasn't tender or sweet; it could never be, he thought, not with them. It was pulling on hair to hard and sinking nails too sharp into tender skin after a roundhouse kick connected with his shoulder. It's fast and angry and against the wall. Her suit is only half pulled off and his pants are at his ankles. It's born out of necessity and companionship and wanting to feel something because they were so close to not ever feeling anything again.

When they're done; they take a shower, separately. And never speak of it again.

oOo

The second time, it's been 2 months since he last saw her. After 4 years at SHIELD, they finally sent her in a solo mission to a country he can't pronounce to fight a man who wouldn't deserve such beauty to end him. He tells her to "_Don't get killed, Romanoff_." And winks, before she boards her plane and is gone for the longest he's been without her. She's not a child but he'll be damned if he doesn't worry.

She comes back from her mission, bruised skin and cut lip, and a haunted look in her eyes that unsettle him. He doesn't ask and she doesn't tell. Just makes him screw her on the floor, right next to his sofa. And he makes an effort to make it last, to kiss every inch of skin but she denies him, voices for the harder even though it's past the point of hurting. She could have this from anyone else, but it's better if it's him. She needs him to chase away her demons. She needs him to make her forget the fear, the anger and the pain. So he complies. And a couple more bruises tint her skin afterwards, but there's a lesser weight on her heart, somehow.

oOo

There was collateral damage they told him. A school that they hadn't known was there. And the bad guys are gone and no one will use those weapons of mass destruction but the cost… Nat takes it hard. She doesn't tell him about it but when they come back he can see it in her eyes, she's weary.

And he knows it's added to her ledger, that she keeps one just as he does. And it's probably not the first time she's had to kill a child, but the boy had reddish hair and green eyes and Clint wonders. They took that from her too, he knows. Living of death takes everything away from you. "I wish it hadn't happened." She tells him the week afterwards, and he swallows an _I know Nat, but you had to_. He knows there is no excuse, that there shouldn't be a reason to look for one in the first place.

When she straddles him in his seat and kisses him, going to work at the buttons of his shirt, he stops her. Grabs her wrists in one hand and cups her cheek with the other, making her look at him. He picks her up and carries her to his bedroom. He can at least do it right this time. He deposits her on his bed, straddles her this time. Takes his time taking off her clothes and never stops kissing her.

For Natasha, this is not how it's supposed to go, it's too slow. Too emotional. He deepens the kiss and thought fades from her mind. He kisses her earlobe and her forehead and her cheeks. And it's more intimate than the hand that goes down between her thighs.

She moans and gently takes him in. They move without their usual frenzy, it's tender and slow and their gasps and moans fill the room. They groan with their release and he holds her, afterwards. Sneaks his arm around her waist and she lets him, resting her head on his chest. She probably won't be here when he wakes up but this is enough, for now.

oOo

He doesn't quite know when they became what they are now. Is not even sure exactly what they are. It's not love, he's sure of that. Love can be manipulated and stolen and twisted into something it's not. What they have is forged on bullets and blood and spending nights in dilapidated motels treating each others injuries. Its trust and companionship but he knows it wouldn't be anyone else but Tasha. Somewhere along the line the partners became each other's friend, lover, north and moral compass. They weren't lost, could never be since the other was where they were always headed. And even then, after a particularly rough day, where the blood clouded their vision and nightmares disrupted their sleep, they could be lost together.

oOo

I have seen nearly every city from a rooftop without jumping.  
I have realized the moon did not have to be full for us to love it.  
We are not tragedies  
stranded here beneath it.

* * *

**A/N:** I wrote this after reading a poem named "We were emergencies" that gave me all the Clintasha feels. Please review and let me know what you think!


End file.
